The Storytellers Ch. 14

The following morning, I met Bill, AKA, James Dennis at a nearby café and, after coffee and doughnuts; we walked two blocks to the train station and waited for the train to arrive.

I should take a moment to describe Mr. James Dennis to the reader. He was a tall, well-favored young man, dressed to the nines in tight-fitting dark brown slacks which were pegged at the cuffs in the current fashion favored by the under twenty-five set. He topped them off with an expensive camel's-haired sport jacket. He could easily have passed for a male model in a cigarette ad found in popular magazines or billboards along the highway.

While not a homely man myself, I wore a casual pair of corduroy slacks, along with a tweed sports jacket that had seen better days.

Dennis had purchased first class tickets which caught me off-guard. I hadn't thought of him as a big spender, but here he was picking up the tab, not only for the train ride to New York City, but for World Series tickets, which as one might expect, are very difficult to come by any year.

But this year with an inter-city rivalry between the Yankees and Dodgers obtaining tickets was almost impossible. Yet he was non-plussed about the whole thing, even though he had yet to come into possession of the ducats.

I assumed he would be using the power to achieve his goal, and as the train pulled into the station put that very question to him.

"Of course I will, Roy. You know how hard it is to get tickets to the Series."

Moments later we boarded the train and were led into the first class compartment, where we found that we were the only passengers.

Dennis queried the conductor and learned that we would be the only ones in the car until Trenton, and even then there was the possibility we would remain the only ones in the car. This was unheard of in my traveling experiences, but then most of that had been just prior and after the war when traveling by car was difficult since gasoline was rationed.

Just about a minute before the train pulled out, I saw two women scurrying along the platform, trying to board the train. I presumed they were mother and daughter because of the disparity in their respective ages. The younger woman was striking in her beauty and I couldn't keep my eyes off her.

To my surprise, only the younger one boarded the train; this I knew for a fact, for the train began to move and the older woman ran a few steps after the train waving to the younger woman. When I turned to mention it to Dennis, I found that he'd not only seen them, but had left the compartment to seek out the woman.

I was astonished when Dennis opened the door to our compartment with the young woman in tow, prattling on about how we would welcome her company and it was not at all unbecoming for her to join us.

Ushering her into the seat facing us, he presented me to her first and then introduced himself. "James Dennis, at your service, Madam, you may recognize my voice as I am heard on the radio twice weekly announcing the All Mall Hour on WQAN out of Scranton."

"Well... yes, I believe I have heard you, Mr. Dennis, and I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. Shannon. Oh, but let me introduce myself. I'm Beatrice Stringfellow. Um, that's Miss Stringfellow," she said, and then appeared stricken with shyness as she sat back in her seat and stared at the floor.

"You may want some reassurance that we've not kidnapped you by whisking you out of the common compartment to join us in first class, but I want to assure you, Miss Stringfellow that we have only the purest of motives in doing so."

I chimed in with, "They may appear to be selfish motives, Miss Stringfellow, but I do believe that while Mr. Dennis has acted on impulse, his intentions are honorable."

"Of course my motives are selfish, Miss Stringfellow. I couldn't bear to share your company... your beauty with the common ilk that sits in the passenger car beyond that door."

Dennis continued along this avenue, with lie following lie and if I were asked to support just one word of his I couldn't venture to say how I would answer as I considered it all drivel. I had to ask myself if he had been plying me with more of the same in our discourse on his adventures in baseball as Napoleon Lajoie.

It seemed evident that Miss Stringfellow saw through his charade too, for after a while she said: "I... I... really should go back to the general seating. The conductor...."

"I know, I know," Dennis replied, his oily tongue gliding over her protests with an ease that amazed me. "But we certainly welcome your company, and find the cost of a first class ticket a bargain if it allows us to enjoy your presence for the trip to New York City. You are headed to the city, are you not?"

"Um, yes I am, Mr. Dennis."

"Wonderful! We shall lunch together, then."

And as fate would have it, the conductor made an appearance, Dennis made a show of paying for Miss Stringfellow's first class ticket and gave the man another bill or two to secure lunch for the three of us.

Twenty minutes later we were eating Cobb Salad and drinking a very good white wine. Miss Stringfellow no longer made any protest about moving back among the rabble, as Dennis succinctly phased it, and appeared eager to share her life story with us.

It seemed she was going to visit her sister, who resided in the Bronx. Her sister's name was Lizbeth, and her husband was stationed in Germany and this opened a new stream of conversation dominated by Dennis.

For the record, having defeated Hitler, we occupied Germany, sort of. Actually, the victorious Allies split Germany into four parts: The British got the West, the French got the highly industrialized Ruhr Valley, The Russians got the East and the US got the South, principally Bavaria. Goals for the occupation were varied: those who had been conquered by the Nazis wanted an impotent agrarian Germany; the United States wanted a neutral self-governing democratic version of the dynamic industrialized Germany before the Nazis. Each of the occupying powers was territorial and for the time being each of the four sectors or "zones" was almost a separate country. The only "universal" in the Germany of 1947 was that the American cigarette was accepted everywhere in lieu of currency.

American goals were to de-nazify and rebuild the country, which we certainly were striving to do, despite the resistance by the Russians every step of the way.

Miss Stringfellow's brother-in-law was a sergeant in the United States Army and had written his wife about the obstructionist policies adopted by the Russians in the Eastern Zone.

Dennis offered his opinion on the matter, and I had to wonder how he had become so well informed. "We'll be at war with the Ruskies before long," he said, startling Miss Stringfellow and myself.

Being a journalist, and having kept abreast of the world situation, I was quick to challenge him. "My God, Dennis, how could you say such a thing? You've caused Miss Stringfellow unnecessary alarm with this preposterous statement."

A bemused expression crossed Dennis' face, but he was quick in his reply. "Unnecessary alarm? I doubt that. We have every reason to mistrust the Reds. We shouldn't underestimate them either. Their goal is fairly obvious. At least it should be to our military men, and of course Harry Truman's seen Stalin's mind work up close."

Miss Stringfellow was nervously nibbling on a corner of her dainty hanky as I objected again. "Where are you getting this... this drivel, Dennis? I haven't seen anything in the press, or heard Winchell utter a word about it."

"What I'm getting at is the obvious differences we already face with the Ruskies: Currency, German Unification, Soviet War reparations, and mere ideology are among the many differences the two sides have. Of course I'm lumping France and Great Britain in with us. The Russians won't compromise on anything. That, my friend, has been reported in the press and on Winchell's show. They really want us all out of Berlin. They see it as the key to taking control of all of Germany."

His reply left both Miss Stringfellow and me speechless. Seemingly satisfied with himself, Dennis settled back in his seat and lit up a cigarette.

Miss Stringfellow appeared flushed and began to squirm in her chair. Dennis noticed it immediately and said, "But now, you must be exhausted, let me show you where the powder room is. You can freshen up there, my Dear."

"Oh, there's no need, Mr. Dennis," Miss Stringfellow murmured as she peeked out shyly through her lashes at both of us.

"But I insist. Even though the powder room is at the end of the compartment any number of things might befall you if I didn't provide you with assistance."

Miss Stringfellow blushed under his effusive words of gallantry and stood up awaiting his "assistance" in walking the aisle to the powder room some thirty-five feet from where we were sitting.

Dennis shot me a grin that told me many things. Foremost was his mentioning that we might get laid in New York. I suddenly recalled Miss Stringfellow's deliciously innocent eyes, luscious lips, and pure complexion. And as I watched her lithe body traverse the short distance to the powder room on Dennis' arm definite scenarios ran through my mind. But the moment Dennis disappeared in the powder room on her heels; I was up and moving to the powder room myself with a secret smile on my face.

When I opened the door to the powder room, Miss Stringfellow was standing and Dennis was already seated and patting the seat next to him. He saw me enter, but did not acknowledge me.

Miss Stringfellow fussed with her dress and then sat demurely next to him on the settee and fiddled nervously with her white gloves.

Finally, having run out of things to fiddle with, she looked sideways at Dennis, I believe she also saw me standing there, but she didn't acknowledge me either.

"May I call you Beatrice, Miss Stringfellow?" Dennis inquired.

"I suppose you may," she replied.

"I would appreciate it if you would then call me by my first name, James," he said.

"James... yes, I suppose I could."

They conversed quietly for a few moments, while I puzzled as to why neither of them had deemed to recognize my presence in the room with them.

I heard Dennis say, "So, Beatrice, did you leave a boyfriend, or a special friend back home?"

Beatrice blushed and shook her head, "Oh, no, after my sister got married so young, my mother wouldn't permit me to see anyone, anyone at all."

It occurred to me that Dennis had begun a seduction and was determining how best to approach the extent of Beatrice's sexual experience.

I studied her as he asked his next question.

"I can't believe... you've no boyfriends, as beautiful as you are?"

"I don't... no, no... no boyfriends," she stammered.

"Well perhaps there was a boy who lived nearby that you had a crush on... someone who caused butterflies in your nether regions, perhaps?"

"Mr. Dennis! I don't appreciate your taking that tone with me."

"It's a simple, honest question, Beatrice. Everyone meets someone who causes such feelings... down there," he added, pointing at her crotch to emphasize his point.

"Surely, my dear, there was some boy that caught your eye? After all, a girl as pretty as you, I'm sure many boys flirted with you." He smiled a cat's smile at Beatrice.

Beatrice didn't understand why Dennis was being so persistent, but a childhood memory had surfaced at his question.

"Well, actually..." she stopped for a moment, started to mumble an excuse then jumped up from the settee just as the train hit a curve and caused her to stumble toward the sink just outside the commode. She had no idea that I was also in the room with them, and barreled into me. I managed to catch her before she plunged face first into the large oval mirror behind the sink.

Beatrice looked up at me, stunned. My yes followed hers and saw that I was clutching her right breast with one hand and her derriere with the other.

I was terribly embarrassed and began an apology, but Dennis cut me off, and took her into his arms in more of a hug than an embrace, cooing soft words into her ear. The next thing I knew the three of us were seated on the settee with Beatrice between us. And she began talking as if nothing had happened.

"Well, there was my piano teacher, he was so nice and kind to me, and I think maybe I had a little crush on him." Beatrice admitted finally. Dennis put an arm around her shoulder and winked at me.

"See my dear, that wasn't so difficult, was it?"

Beatrice was still too stunned by what was happening to her to react. Dennis took her hand in his free hand, and said soothingly, "Don't be so bashful, Beatrice, having a crush is perfectly normal. Why, if you didn't have crushes, you'd be abnormal. Everyone has them, it's what you do about them that matters."

His eyes gleamed at Beatrice mischievously, inviting her to laugh along. A moment later they were giggling together.

Suddenly, Beatrice turned a delicate shade of rose and announced that she really must allow us to excuse her.

"Mr. Dennis, you don't understand, I came into the powder room to... to take care of business. I didn't expect both you gentlemen to accompany me. Now if you'll please excuse me,"

"Oh, you have to pee," Dennis said, and you could have heard a pin drop. Beatrice's rosy cheeks brightened into a deep red as she nodded her head and held up a fluttering hand. "Yes."

"Right there, then," he said and shooed her into the stall and actually closed the door before she could.

"Lock it please," he said, taking charge before she summoned up the courage to request we leave the room entirely.

I had never witnessed anything like it. In fact, I was speechless, and remained so another minute. There was the swish of rustling clothing followed by the unmistakable sound of a woman urinating into the water below her hind quarters. Beatrice definitely had to go. Her stream of piss went on unabated for a full sixty seconds, possibly longer. I was beyond counting.

I pulled a handkerchief from my breast pocket and held it over the partition. "Please, make use of this anyway you see fit."

She plucked it from my hand and I heard a muffled, "Thank you, Mr. Shannon, I appreciate your generosity in my time of need."

"You're welcome, I'm sure," I replied and glanced at Dennis who was trying not to laugh. The toilet flushed and a moment later, Beatrice reappeared, went to the sink, washed her tiny hands and came back to the settee and sat between us again as if nothing unusual had just happened.

Dennis reached into his hip pocket and produced a flask. He opened it with a flick of the wrist and tendered it to Beatrice. "I think we should celebrate our good fortune in meeting one another," he said. "It's really remarkable when you think about it."

To me his words were almost meaningless, but to Beatrice it was as if he'd thrown her a lifeline when she was sinking into the ocean's depths.

Beatrice wasn't even paying attention as she gulped down the finger of brandy. She spluttered as it burned a hole down her throat. "There, there," Dennis patted her back, even reaching around to gently rub her tummy, as though he could take away the sting of the potent alcohol. With a gasp, Beatrice jerked away a little bit, but his hands caged her in.

"It's alright, Beatrice, we're not going to hurt you. You're perfectly safe with us. Rest assured no one will come bursting in on us." That said, he gave me a warning glance that told me to remain quiet for the time being, and I did. But my cock had begun to stir at the possibilities before us.

I must admit that not once during this episode did I ever think of Belva. I am ashamed of that to this day, but I would still have been a willing participant to what followed regardless of my feelings for Belva.

Beatrice turned big, liquid eyes up to him. "Oh, Mr. Dennis... it's very improper for you to...." For a second I wondered why Beatrice had stopped in mid-sentence then I saw my partner's hands sweeping in widening circles on her back and tummy.

"Now, now," he repeated soothingly, as though his actions were completely normal. "Lean back just a little, my dear, the brandy may have been a little much for you."

I realized that he had mesmerized her to some extent, for his hands kept sweeping in such broad circles that the edge of his palm had just brushed the underside of her breasts. At the same time, the hand on her back swept down to her lower back in counterpoint. Beatrice arched her back slightly in automatic response to the drugging pleasure of his warm hands. She could feel the heat of the massage even through the layers of clothing she wore.

I saw her lick her lips in the same manner as Belva had when I got her aroused, and I understood that Beatrice, unbidden by either of us, was entertaining the most wanton of thoughts.

I couldn't believe my ears when Dennis whispered, "In concert, Roy, in concert," and began a light massaging of Beatrice's left breast. She didn't jerk away, and I adhered to Dennis' instruction and reached over and began to massage her right breast.

I felt her heart flutter and realized it was racing much faster than one's heart does normally. Although encased in a fairly stiff brassiere, my thumb felt her nipple rising up to meet my caress.

Denis was whispering in her ear and I heard every word. "Beatrice, my dear, what's causing your nipples to press so hard against my fingers?"

I should point out that both Dennis and I had our palms pressed against her delicious mounds while our fingers mischievously squeezed her nipples ever so lightly. The combined surge of sensation caused her to arch her back, and wrung a whimpering sigh from her luscious bee-stung lips. "Ohhh... we shouldn't...."

But that was all the resistance she put forth as we continued to ply her nipples in tandem.

"Beatrice, look at me," he said sternly, and as if expecting some form of punishment, Beatrice obediently opened heavy eyes to look at him. I realized then that the young woman seated between us had a penchant for submission, and that both Dennis and I would have her before the train reached Pennsylvania Station if we wished.

Dennis slowly unbuttoned her dress. There was no protest whatsoever from Beatrice. And when the dress was half open her brasserie and the tops of her swelling breasts were exposed to both of us, Dennis said, "Lift one out, Roy, I'll get the other."

I did just that, scooping a pale globe from its lacey shelter into the slightly cooler air of the room while Dennis did the same with her other breast while the brasserie remained in place. Beatrice's head lolled backward and fell over my left arm, while Dennis continued to support her back to some extent. "We shouldn't," she protested weakly.

"And why not?" I said a beat later, not having heard Dennis respond for the first time.

"It's so naughty, I've never...." Beatrice said after a short silence, and then belied her protest with a groan of pleasure from Dennis lifting her breast to his lips and giving suck to her turgid nipple.